


Seven Out of Seven Royal Marines Agree

by abundantlyqueer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: DVD Extras, I Don't Even Know You Guys, M/M, The Knock-Off Porn Version of That Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of an AU. In some twisted universe that superficially looks like the Two Two One Bravo Baker universe, John tells Sherlock that the only way Sherlock gets to top him is if Sherlock ‘works his way up through the ranks’; ie, every guy in the section gets a go at Sherlock, starting with Cullen and working up to Blackwood. What they’re allowed do with Sherlock is a function of their rank in the section.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James Cullen

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God, we are all going to hell. This is NOT CANON for Two Two One Bravo Baker; this is a dirty bad wrong thought I had that I wrote down and posted on the internet because I AM GOING TO HELL. HELL, I tell you, and I’m taking every one of you perverts with me.

They commandeer the company’s common room – a six-man tent with a thin plywood floor and two bare light bulbs hanging from the ridge pole. McMath, Barr, and Cullen settle on the luridly floral orange and brown couch, McMath and Barr slouched comfortably but Cullen hunched forwards and frowning a little. Garrett sits on the floor at their feet while Hinde stands leaning on the back of the couch. Blackwood perches on the Formica-topped table with his feet on the seat of a plastic chair; Henn leans back against the table’s edge, relying on Blackwood’s formidable mass to hold it in place. Sherlock, dressed in pale camouflage combat clothing but without weapons or armor, stands facing them.

“You’ll be told the duration and parameters for a round,” Blackwood informs Sherlock, “and you’ll be asked to give explicit verbal consent to continue. Once you begin a round, we’ll do everything we can to make sure you complete it, but if you tap out three times we will stop – and you’ll have failed the test. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says promptly.

“Okay,” Blackwood says, slipping his chronometer off his wrist and thumbing the stop watch button. “First round: five minutes, hands only, stay outside the clothes. Cullen, you’re it.”

Cullen pushes up from the couch and steps forward to stand face to face with Sherlock. He’s a shade shorter than Sherlock but considerably broader in weight of bones and bulk of muscle under smooth young flesh. His brown hair is shorn brutally short, giving some valuable distinction to regular, pleasant features that are otherwise notable only for youth and robust good health.

“Do you want to continue?” he asks gravely.

“I can’t have _more_ , I haven’t had _any_ yet,” Sherlock smirks.

The slight flush of Cullen’s cheeks deepens.

“I want to continue,” Sherlock amends.

“Cullen, make me fucking proud here,” Henn says.

Cullen glances at him, nodding.

“Clock starts – now,” Blackwood announces.

Cullen shoves closer, his brown eyes locking on Sherlock’s pale green ones, and slips both hands down the thin cotton covering Sherlock’s chest to the heavier canvas clothing his crotch. Sherlock’s eyes widen a little at the directness of Cullen’s attack, but he reciprocates quickly, palming the lavish curves of Cullen’s chest through his tee shirt and then dropping his hands lower. Cullen cups one broad hand over the soft but weighty bulge in Sherlock’s crotch and squeezes a little. Sherlock inhales deeply, nostrils flaring, and grips the hard rod of Cullen’s erection. Cullen massages the heel of his hand firmly over the rapidly thickening shaft of Sherlock’s cock.

“Hey, Cullen, is he getting hard?” Henn grins.

“He’s thinking about it,” Cullen says, scooping his hand beneath the softer curves of Sherlock’s balls.

“It’s difficult not to,” Sherlock says.

“Hey, Holmes, is _Cullen_ hard?” Garrett asks.

“Cullen’s been fucking hard since we started talking about doing this three days ago,” Henn laughs.

Sherlock rubs his palm up and down on Cullen’s erection, and skims his other hand up Cullen’s chest to where the soft point of his nipple pushes against his tee shirt. Sherlock pinches lightly and the flesh between his fingertips hardens almost instantly. Cullen gasps, his hips flexing and his cock pulsing thickly against Sherlock’s hand.

“Fuck,” he says, his teeth dragging deliberately over the flushed curve of his lower lip.

“You like that?” Sherlock goads, pinching a little harder.

“Ah - _fuck_ ,” Cullen says huskily.

Sherlock hums appreciatively, tilting his head as his gaze moves intently over the gleam of sweat blooming on Cullen’s temple and cheekbone.

“Thirty seconds,” Blackwood warns.

“Fuck it,” Cullen complains.

Sherlock sleeks his grip down the length of Cullen’s erection and flicks his thumbnail across the rigid pip of his nipple. Cullen jolts against him, his fingers tightening reflexively on Sherlock’s cock.

“That’s it, time’s over,” Blackwood says.

Cullen grimaces and steps reluctantly back from Sherlock. Barr leans forwards to shove him approvingly on the hip. Cullen smiles a little sheepishly, shifts his hips, and sits down again.


	2. Thomas Henn

“Second round,” Blackwood says, re-zeroing the stopwatch function on his chronometer. “Ten minutes, hands anywhere you can reach without undoing fastenings - mouths above the waist but no kissing on the lips. Henn, this is you.”

Henn straightens away from the table and tugs at the crotch of his pants ostentatiously before walking over to stand in front of Sherlock. He’s almost exactly a head shorter than Sherlock and although he’s only a year older than Cullen his musculature has a denser, more tested texture to it. There’s more edge to his looks too, his sweetly youthful features undercut by the contrast of his straw blond hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes - as well as his pale blue of his eyes – with his tanned golden skin.

“Do you want to continue?” he asks, tilting his face up to look at Sherlock.

“I wouldn’t stop now for the world,” Sherlock says with a slight quirk of his mouth.

Henn grins and shakes out his shoulders and arms like a boxer settling for a bout.

“Clock starts – now,” Blackwood says.

Henn shoves one thigh between Sherlock’s legs and presses his stomach to the rigid bulge of Sherlock’s erection. He grips two fistfuls of cotton at the front of Sherlock’s under-armor shirt, yanks the hem up out of his belt, and thrusts both hands up under it. His long upper lip curls away from his teeth in a snarl of satisfaction as he skims his fingertips up the narrow curves of Sherlock’s chest to his nipples. Sherlock huffs his breath out open-mouthed as he palms the firm rise of Henn’s buttock and squeezes. Henn exhales hard into the curve of Sherlock’s neck and drags his lips up the thick tendon to the tender hollow beneath Sherlock’s earlobe. Sherlock’s eyelids flicker rapidly as he fights the instinct to turn his head and cover Henn’s mouth with his own.

“Kiss me,” Henn murmurs, rolling Sherlock’s nipples between thumbs and forefingers, “kiss me somewhere you’re allowed to.”

Sherlock growls in frustration. He hooks his fingers into the neckline of Henn’s tee shirt and pulls it aside to expose the broad triangle of muscle where Henn’s neck meets his shoulder. Sherlock drops his open mouth to the deeply tanned skin and sinks his teeth in softly. Henn bucks in his grip, crying out in unabashed pleasure.

“Jesus, Henn, you’re a fucking slut,” McMath laughs.

Henn twists his head to mouth along the silky hair of Sherlock’s eyebrow. Blackwood cranes for a better view, scowling at Henn’s straying so close to forbidden territory, but then Henn writhes out of Sherlock’s grip a bit and palms Sherlock’s shirt up to expose the long, pale weave of ribs and muscles. Henn dips his head and blunders his mouth upwards along Sherlock’s side, brushing cloth upwards until he can rasp the flat of his tongue roughly over one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock clasps a hand around the curve of Henn’s skull, his fingers splaying in the short white-gold strands of hair. Henn flicks the tip of his tongue over the pink point of Sherlock’s nipple, and drops his hand to nudge his knuckles against Sherlock’s stomach.

“Suck in,” he says to Sherlock.

Sherlock inhales, his belly hollowing beneath his ribs. Henn slips his hand into the shadowed space between Sherlock’s skin and the waist of his combat pants, and then twists his wrist to hook his fingers inside the upper edge of Sherlock’s underwear. Henn drags Sherlock’s clothing away from his body as far as he can; Sherlock’s cock flexes straight in the eased space, the tip poking slightly up out of his waistband. Henn’s mouth purses as he works up a mouthful of saliva; he bends down a bit and spits onto the exposed head of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock jolts, throwing his head up and back in response to the sudden warmth and wetness on sensitive skin.

“That’s fucking cheating,” Cullen complains.

“His mouth’s above the waist,” Blackwood says.

Henn and Sherlock exchange a heated glance before Henn thrusts his hand inside Sherlock’s pants again, closing his fingers around the spit-wetted head of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groans, staring at Henn in appreciative fascination while Henn moves his hand as smoothly as he can in the restricted space.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock says lazily as Henn rubs his thumb in a small circle around the slit of Sherlock’s glans.

Sherlock pulls Henn’s shirt up around his armpits, and knots the thin stretchy cotton so it stays in place. Sherlock thumbs both of Henn’s nipples and flicks the two brown ovals with the edges of his thumbnails. He drops a hand to Henn’s crotch, cupping and squeezing his erection. Henn whines hungrily, his fingers sweeping more rapidly over Sherlock’s glans. Sherlock clasps the curve of Henn’s buttock with his other hand and bends his head until he’s breathing almost into Henn’s parted lips.

“If you were mine,” Sherlock murmurs, “I’d fuck the bad right out of you.”

“It can’t be done,” Henn says breathily as Sherlock squeezes tighter with both hands, “and it’s definitely been tried.”

Henn’s leaking copiously enough to produce a slickly wet spot on the canvas covering the tip of his cock. Sherlock pinches the fabric up between thumb and forefinger and rubs it back and forth over the tip of Henn’s cock, while scooping his other hand down between Henn’s thighs to stroke firmly over his balls.

“Oh fuck, oh Jesus,” Henn says, squirming against Sherlock’s hands.

“Thirty seconds,” Blackwood announces.

“No, fuck it, _fuck me_ ,” Henn says, tilting his face upwards, shamelessly importuning.

Sherlock smiles crookedly down at him. He squeezes Henn’s crotch once more and then takes his hands away reluctantly.

“That’s it, time’s over,” Blackwood says.

Henn drags his hand out of Sherlock’s waistband, brings his fingers to his face, and inhales deeply. Sherlock’s eyes narrow in mixed amusement and arousal.

“Henn, don’t make me shoot you,” Blackwood warns.

Henn drops his hand. He turns, pulling his tee shirt down again as he walks over to Cullen, leans down and whispers something in his ear.

“If you want to keep going,” Blackwood says to Sherlock, “take your shirt off and open your trousers.”

Sherlock pulls his shirt off over his head, tosses the bundled garment at Henn who catches it one-handed with a grin, and jerks his fly buttons open.


	3. Ernest Garrett

“Third round,” Blackwood says, his mouth curling slightly as he contemplates the firm, slender lines of Sherlock’s shoulders and arms. “Fifteen minutes. Hands anywhere on but not in, and mouths anywhere except cocks, balls, and arseholes. Garrett.”

Garrett springs up from his spot on the floor in front of the couch. He’s shorter than Cullen but taller than Henn, with cropped dark brown hair and a distinctly Mediterranean or Semitic cast to his features – dark and sharp and strongly drawn. Clothed, his figure is striking for its width of shoulders and narrowness of hips, but when he strips his tee shirt off he reveals stunningly defined muscles twisting across his shoulders and down his arms and sides. His deeply tanned skin is marked with three heavy black kanji tattooed in a vertical line between his shoulder blades.

“That is a fucking great body,” Henn says.

Garrett smirks in response, the complex curves of his mouth flexing softly. He steps aside, picks up one of the unoccupied plastic chairs from against the canvas wall of the tent and sets it down next to Sherlock. Sherlock looks at the deeply carved braid of muscle on Garrett’s stomach with obvious interest.

“Do you want to keep going?” Garrett asks.

“Yes, I rather think I do,” Sherlock says.

“Do you think you’ll make it through more of us if you come, or if you don’t?” Garrett says.

“I regret to say – I’ll probably do better if I’m frustrated,” Sherlock grimaces.

“Take your cock out and sit down,” Garrett says, jerking his chin towards the chair.

Sherlock dips a hand into his already unbuttoned camouflage pants and pushes his underwear down until it’s tucked beneath his balls. His cock slants up out of his open fly, swaying at a steep angle to his belly. He sits down, thighs spread and booted feet set solidly on the floor. Garrett opens his own combat pants.

“Take’em off,” Henn says, eliciting laughter and a shove from Cullen.

Garrett glances questioningly at Blackwood, who shrugs. Garrett heels off his already unlaced boots and strips his pants down, revealing the deep striations of muscle curving over his thighs and calves. He steps out of his pants and peels off his socks.

“Look at the fucking muscles on his arse,” Henn whoops, when Garrett slips his underwear down and off.

His flanks are deeply hollowed, with the high hard curves of his buttocks meeting in a deeply shadowed cleft. His cock hangs away from his body, the darkly flushed shaft flexing upwards a little with each beat of his pulse. His body hair is a silky, dark pelt that narrows from his breastbone down his belly and widens again over his groin and inner thighs. He steps forwards, straddles Sherlock’s lap, and sits down on his thighs.

Sherlock lifts both hands, skimming his fingertips over the muscled convolutions of Garrett’s torso. Garrett bends his head to bring his face closer to Sherlock’s. Someone whoops. Garrett opens his mouth and breathes heavily against Sherlock’s. Someone – Henn, surely – whistles piercingly. Garrett brings his lips down over Sherlock’s and pushes his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Their bare chests press together, their bellies, and there’s a complicated incomplete contact between Garrett’s exposed cock and the upper part of Sherlock’s poking from the folds of his open fly.

Sherlock brings his hands up to cup the angles of Garrett’s cheekbones, tugging enough to shape their kiss into something deeper and hungrier. Garrett hooks one hand behind Sherlock’s nape and for a moment he just rides the push and pull of Sherlock’s mouth. The room goes very quiet, the only sounds the faint whisper of skin on cloth where the insides of Garrett’s thighs move against the outsides of Sherlock’s, and the deeply muffled sound of Sherlock’s appreciation. Blackwood makes a weird in the base of his throat and everyone laughs, including Garrett and Sherlock, which breaks the kiss.

Garrett leans back a bit and turns his head aside.

“Have we got something to grease things up with?” he asks.

Blackwood dips into one of his thigh pouches, extracts a plastic tube, and throws it to Garrett who swipes it unhesitatingly out of the air. He flips the cap and stripes the clear gel across his hand. Sherlock drops his chin and sets his mouth resolutely. Garrett shifts back on Sherlock’s thighs a bit and reaches down. He sleeks his hand slowly down from the head of Sherlock’s cock to the root. Sherlock’s expression twists into a teeth-baring grimace; his head drops up and back and he grips Garrett’s hips so tightly that his fingertips whiten. Garrett twists his grip and draws his hand slowly up along Sherlock’s shaft again.

Sherlock blows his breath out deliberately, keeping his eyes on the curve of canvas overhead. Garrett works a slow, smooth stroke on Sherlock’s cock, eying him with incendiary intensity. After a minute or two Sherlock eases under him and drops his head to meet Garrett’s dark gaze. Garrett gives one more lingering pull along Sherlock’s cock and lets go. He stripes his palm with lubricant again, flips the cap of the tube closed, and sets it down on the floor next to the chair.

He shuffles back off Sherlock’s thighs and half-stands. Sherlock watches in utter fascination as Garrett curves his darkly tanned fingers around the top of his cock, which is almost equally tanned and further darkened by the flush of arousal. Garrett leans forwards, points his cock down, and dabs the slicked tip against each of Sherlock’s nipples in turn. Sherlock hisses his breath in softly. Garrett leans in even more, aiming his cock upwards this time towards Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock presses his lips closed; his nostrils flare delicately as Garrett drags the tip of his cock deliberately across Sherlock’s mouth.

“Fucking shocking lack of respect for discipline in this unit,” McMath says.

“He’s – fuck,” Blackwood says.

Garrett leans away; Sherlock lets his mouth fall open and licks his lips carefully. Garrett sits down on Sherlock’s thighs again, his own thighs spread wide and his bare feet tucked back so that he’s tipped forwards against Sherlock’s body. Their balls are pushed together and their cocks slant across each other. Garrett cups a hand around Sherlock’s shaft and brings it into alignment against his own. He wraps both hands around their cocks, making a single circle surrounding the double rod of Sherlock’s shaft and his own. He slides his grip down and then up again.

“Oh – fuck,” Sherlock says fervently.

“Look at that,” McMath laughs, “he’s not even halfway and he already sounds more like one of us.”

Sherlock grins, but another swifter pass of Garrett’s hands breaks his amusement apart. Garrett’s hands move more quickly; at the upper reach of each stroke his thumbs pass over the slit of each glans or dip between to stroke the wisp of skin on the underside. Both men are staring down at the intersection of their bodies and several other people stand or crane a bit for a better view.

“Tell me if you’re getting too close,” Garrett says, glancing up at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock nods, but he doesn’t take his eyes off his cock sliding smoothly through Garrett’s hands alongside Garrett’s. Garrett tightens his grip a little and Sherlock rolls his head back and groans.

“You want to move?” Garrett asks, when Sherlock wrenches his head forwards again. “You want to fuck my hands?”

Sherlock’s eyes blossom wide. He plants his feet farther apart on the bare wooden floor and renews his grip on Garrett’s hips. He flexes, thighs tensing and stomach muscles clenching as he rolls his pelvis. His cock slides downwards along the underside of Garrett’s and then back up along it. His glans catches minutely in the hollow of Garrett’s frenulum and then pops past it in a fleshy kiss that makes both of them gasp.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” Garrett says hoarsely.

Sherlock’s too absorbed in recreating the effect to answer. The chair under him creaks a little with each push of his hips and there’s the tiniest wet whisper of skin against skin.

“Too much,” Sherlock says after a minute or two of steady rocking.

Garrett lets go of them both and leans forwards to kiss him again. They spend the next couple of minutes mouthing lazily at each other – lips and jaws and necks. Sherlock finally turns his head aside.

“Okay, I’m okay,” he says.

Garrett circles his hands around them both again.

“You move,” Sherlock says. “Fuck my prick.”

“Oh, fuck,” Henn says loudly and several people laugh in response.

Garrett starts to jerk his hips so that his glans pushes and slides and pulls against Sherlock’s. Sherlock slips his hands from Garrett’s hips to his buttocks, using his grip to jerk Garrett in harder on each thrust.

“Tighter,” Sherlock says, his voice low and rough.

The raw cords of Garrett’s biceps flex as he tightens his grip. Sherlock groans and Garrett kicks his hips more rapidly. Sherlock’s hands skim over Garrett’s back and arms and chest. He fingers Garrett’s nipples and Garrett responds with a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, fuck, yes, close,” Garrett blurts.

“Yes, come on,” Sherlock rumbles. “Come on my prick.”

“One minute,” Blackwood says in utter despair.

Garrett’s movements go frantic, pumping into the grip of his hands around their cocks. Sherlock rolls Garrett’s nipples in his fingers and keeps up a growled stream of encouragement.

“God, you’re so fucking hard. You’re going to come. You’re going to come on my prick – when Hinde takes over my prick will be covered in your come - ”

Garrett gives a strangled grunt and his semen spurts out in a thick ribbon that unwinds onto Sherlock’s stomach and then across the head of his cock. Sherlock jerks back, his breath bellowing out of his nostrils.

“Let go of me,” he snaps.

Garrett’s hands fall away and he tips forwards, his forehead dropping onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh, fucking marry me,” Henn says plaintively, though it’s not clear if he’s addressing Sherlock or Garrett or both.

“Time’s up,” Blackwood says.

Garrett drags himself upright again and stands shakily.

“Fucking great mouth,” he says to Sherlock, swiping his fingers across his own lips in illustration. “Great kisser.”

Sherlock tries to smile, but it comes out as a breathless grimace instead.

Garrett gathers his clothes up and walks behind the couch to where Hinde is standing.

“If you want to continue,” Blackwood says to Sherlock, “take the rest of your clothes off.”

Sherlock stands up. His cock is flushed deep red and glistening with his own precum as well as Garrett’s semen. He moves awkwardly, hesitantly, as he pushes his pants and underwear down past his knees and then sits again to undo his boots, remove them and his socks, and then shuck everything else off. He kicks the heap of clothes and boots aside.


	4. William Hinde

Hinde has moved from behind the couch and is leaning down to McMath, who’s speaking quietly to him. Hinde nods and looks over at Sherlock.

“Do you want to keep going?” Hinde asks.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock counters.

“You can’t get to Barr except past me,” Hinde says seriously.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s a game,” he says, “unless it isn’t, in which case it’s sexual assault - and rather less amusing.”

Hinde considers this for a few seconds and then nods sharply.

“Okay,” he says, stepping towards Sherlock. “I’m in.”

Hinde is a inch or two taller than Sherlock and has the same long, slender bones, but his are carrying twenty pounds more clean muscle than Sherlock’s. His cropped hair is ebony-brown with a thick disorderly wave that makes it curl around his hairline untidily. His eyebrows and eyelashes and eyes are all the same deep warm ebony and his skin is caramel brown. His features are strong and straight and might almost approach austerity if it weren’t for the fleshy tip of his nose and the ornate curves of his lips.

“Fourth round,” Blackwood says, his gaze fixed on Sherlock, who stares back steadily. “Twenty minutes. Nothing in the arse.”

“Yes, I think best not,” Sherlock purrs to laughter from everyone, including Hinde.

Sherlock glances around, hands on hips, apparently oblivious to his own nudity and the insistent upwards strain of his erection.

“Does someone have a rag?” he asks. “I don’t seem to have mine on me.”

There’s another ripple of laughter and McMath gets up from the couch to offer a large square of tan cotton.

“You could help,” Sherlock says as he accepts the cloth. “Come over here and talk to him.”

McMath glances questioningly at Hinde, who nods. Sherlock bends slightly to lay the cloth across his thigh and fold it into a diagonal band. He looks up at Hinde.

“Sit down. If at any point you feel like opening your trousers, feel free, but I’m not going to do it for you.”

Hinde frowns a little as he sits down on the chair and sets his feet aggressively far apart. Sherlock walks around to stand behind him, loops the folded band of cloth over his head, lays it across his eyes, and knots it at the back of his head. Then he steps aside and draws McMath into his place.

“Hinde, once we start I’m not going to speak,” Sherlock says. “My voice is rather intrusively male. And I’m not going to use my hands - same problem, I’m afraid. Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Hinde says, nodding.

“Corporal Blackwood, we’ll have our twenty minutes starting now, thank you,” Sherlock says.

“Clock’s running - now,” Blackwood says, his eyes creasing a little at the corners as he looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock moves to stand in front of Hinde. McMath leans both hands on the backrest of the chair and bends down slightly.

“Remember that girl in Munich?” McMath says conversationally. “With the short red hair? What the hell was her name?”

“Gabi,” Hinde says without hesitation.

Sherlock goes down on his knees between Hinde’s thighs, as close as he can get without touching.

“Gabi,” McMath says, “yeah, that was her. Of course, you got to know her better than me, no wonder you remember.”

Hinde smirks. Sherlock bends his head and brushes his nose and chin down along the crest of Hinde’s left thigh.

“Remember that dress she was wearing?” McMath chuckles. “All those buttons? How long did it take you to get into that thing anyway?”

Sherlock drags his cheek from inside Hinde’s knee up his inner thigh, high enough that the tip of his nose nudges into Hinde’s groin. Hinde’s mouth goes soft for a split second before he answers McMath.

“There was a zipper – at the side.”

“Oh, the vixen,” McMath says.

Sherlock nudges and nuzzles with his nose and chin. Hinde’s throat flexes as he swallows hard. Sherlock glances up, meeting McMath’s gaze, and crinkles his eyes encouragingly.

“And those boots,” McMath says. “Fuck, those were just hot.”

Sherlock turns his head, brings his mouth to the firm curve of Hinde’s inner thigh, and huffs his breath through the heavy cloth of his camouflage pants. Hinde makes a tiny throat sound, and his knees flex slightly farther apart.

“She kept them on,” he says, “for most of it.”

“You jammy bollocks,” McMath says, as Sherlock puts his mouth to the soft curve of Hinde’s balls. “How come you get all the girls, huh?”

Hinde jolts back slightly, but then slouches down in the chair to press more closely into the contact.

“Because I’m not spending half my time chasing Henn’s sloppy arse,” Hinde says.

He tips his head back and the tension visibly drains from his body as Sherlock rises up on his knees to nose gently along the firming ridge of his cock.

“What did you do with her?” McMath asks, as Hinde’s fingers flex on his own thigh. “Did you fuck her?”

“Yeah - oh - yes,” Hinde says, his voice low and breathy.

His head drops forwards again, so that he’d be looking directly at Sherlock is it wasn’t for the blindfold covering his eyes. Sherlock drags the edges of his teeth over the bulge in the front of Hinde’s pants.

“How? What way?” McMath persists.

There’s a pause, Hinde’s lips pressed together and his breath coming a little too rapidly from his nostrils. Sherlock has his open mouth over Hinde’s erection, exhaling warmth through the heavy cloth covering it.

“I – with her on top,” Hinde says, his intonation haphazard. “And then - fuck - from behind.”

Sherlock rubs his nose and chin along the ridge of Hinde’s cock.

“You fucking dog,” McMath says. “Was she - ?”

“Mac, shut up,” Hinde says, his voice blurring at the edges.

“Yeah?” McMath smirks.

“Yeah, just - oh yeah,” Hinde sighs, his body slumping more heavily in the chair.

His mouth smears open, his upper lip curling away from the lower a little. He takes hold of the edges of the chair seat, long brown fingers wrapping around the molded plastic and squeezing tightly. He starts to shift slightly, flexing his thigh muscles to lift his pelvis a little. Sherlock sinks down onto his heel to push and puff into the cloth covering Hinde’s balls. Hinde’s right hand leaves the edge of the chair seat, lifts fractionally, then drops back to hold the chair again. Sherlock kneels up again to bite softly up along Hinde’s shaft.

The room is still and silent. The only sounds are Hinde’s harsh breathing and the whisper of Sherlock’s face against the cloth of Hinde’s pants. The only movements are the smooth shift of Sherlock’s back as he works his mouth over Hinde’s crotch, and the minute flex Hinde’s fingers on the chair seat. Sherlock presses his open mouth over the top of Hinde’s cock, soaking the cloth covering it with his saliva. Hinde abruptly lifts both hands and jerks back on the chair seat, pulling away from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Fuck this,” Hinde says tightly, plucking at his belt and then his buttons.

Sherlock leans back, a crooked smirk sliding briefly across his mouth. Hinde yanks the two sides of his pants fly apart, and slips his hand into his underwear. He pulls his erection out with one hand, gripping it in the middle of the shaft, and uses his other hand to push the top of his underwear down below his balls. He shifts his hand up and down his shaft slightly, working soft skin over the underlying hardness. Sherlock leans in, licks his lips, and then drags them lightly up the underside of Hinde’s glans.

“Oh - fuck,” Hinde says.

He aims his cock downwards and the head blunders over Sherlock’s top lip. Sherlock leans in and takes it into his mouth, his lips sliding down to meet Hinde’s encircling finger and thumb. Hinde exhales noisily and takes his hand away. Sherlock draws back slightly, goes farther down, draws back again, and then presses down until his breath huffs through his nostrils and his throat works heavily. Hinde straightens his legs, spreading them farther apart. Sherlock drops his hands into his own lap, one gripping his shaft, the other cupping and squeezing his balls.  
He starts to slick the circle of his lips smoothly up and down from the top of Hinde’s cock to the lower part of his shaft. Hinde’s right hand goes back to the chair seat, his left still anchoring his underwear and cradling his balls. Sherlock starts to move more quickly, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks harder. Hinde groans breathily.

“Feel good?” McMath asks.

“Yeah,” Hinde mumurs.

“Nice mouth?” McMath presses.

“Fucking beautiful,” Hinde says sharply.

Without breaking rhythm, Sherlock takes his hand off his cock and extends it out to his side, palm up. He raps his knuckles against the plastic tube of lubricant lying on the floor next to him. Henn undrapes himself from the arm of the couch and comes to crouch next to Sherlock. He picks up the tube, flips the cap while he takes hold of Sherlock’s wrist to steady his hand, and applies a thick slash of gel across his palm. Sherlock flicks his eyes in acknowledgement. He drops his hand into his lap again and spreads the lubricant over his balls and along his cock. Henn sinks down on one knee, his gaze caught in the drag of Sherlock’s hand around his own cock. McMath steps forwards and hooks a finger into the neckline of Henn’s tee shirt and tugs. Henn wrinkles his nose in annoyance but stands up and they both move back to the couch.

Sherlock circles his thumb over his glans. Hinde is open-mouthed and breathing heavily. Sherlock lets the motion of his own body – the shift of spine and hips that slides his mouth the length of Hinde’s cock – drive his own cock through his fist. His thighs and flanks quiver with the effort of sustaining the smooth, swift motion of his weight. His cheeks and chest turn flushed and damp.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come,” Hinde says, sounding almost dismayed. “I’m gonna come.”

Sherlock plunges the circle of his lips down to the root of Hinde’s cock and risks the faintest vocalization, hardly more than a firm exhalation deep in his throat. Hinde jerks convulsively, his right hand white-knuckled as he clutches the chair seat. Sherlock’s shoulders hitch as he coughs slightly, struggling to swallow and breathe and keep the full length of Hinde’s cock in his mouth. A little whitish fluid bubbles wetly at the corner of his mouth, against the dark curls of Hinde’s pubic hair. Sherlock swallows again more freely as Hinde’s cock softens in his mouth. Sherlock pulls back slowly, sucking Hinde’s shaft clean and then tonguing gently around the slippery folds of his foreskin before letting him drop from his mouth. Sherlock licks the corners of his lips clean and lifts his hand to wipe his knuckles across his mouth.

Hinde’s still breathing hard, but he’s sitting softly slumped with one hand lying loosely on his thigh and at the hanging at his side. Sherlock, also rather breathless, looks up at him.

“One minute,” Blackwood says quietly.

Hinde licks his lips deliberately, flexes his fingers, and lifts his right hand to the blindfold. Sherlock stands up, the movement hesitant and oddly angular. His erection is darkly flushed and glossed with lubricant. Hinde peels the blindfold up from his eyes and off his head. He blinks heavily and then smiles open-mouthed up at Sherlock.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks sharply.

“Yeah, fuck, I’m fine,” Hinde grins.

Sherlock smiles, and then grins.

“Time’s up,” Blackwood says.

Hinde gathers his feet under himself and stands up. He scoops himself back into his clothing and steps past Sherlock, looking him up and down with undisguised interest. Sherlock looks across the room at Barr.


	5. Henry Barr

“Fifth round,” Blackwood says huskily. “Twenty-five minutes, anything except your cock in his arse.”

Barr unfolds up from the couch and cups his hand over the bulge of his erection through his camouflage pants.

“You want to keep going?” he asks Sherlock, his mouth quirking as he contemplates Sherlock’s cock standing flushed and stiff against his belly.

Sherlock is breathing hard, his slender shoulders lifting and falling unevenly. He bends his head, directing his dark, heated stare from under heavy eyelids, and silently shapes the word _yes_ with soft, swollen lips.

Barr steps forwards, stripping his shirt off over his head. He’s about the same height as Garrett - a couple of inches shorter than Sherlock - but a much heavier build, with thick smooth curves of muscle under his pale coffee skin. The crisp black curls of his hair are shorn tightly; his eyebrows and eyelashes are glossy black too, but his eyes are golden brown and his skin is pale enough to bear a scattering of mahogany-brown freckles across the broad bridge of his nose and the flats of his cheekbones. His uniform shoulder flash - the words _Royal Marines_ in a curve above and _Commando_ beneath - is replicated as a simple black tattoo at the top of his left arm, and the words _One People_ curl in large, ornate script across his back just below the nape of his neck.

Barr tugs his fly buttons open as he moves closer to Sherlock, who’s staring at him with undisguised desperation. Barr steps right into Sherlock’s space and tips his face upwards. Sherlock’s breath shakes out through parted lips. The thick black fringes of Barr’s eyelashes lift as he looks up from Sherlock’s mouth to his eyes.

“I - ” Sherlock falters, his voice a thick rumble.

“It’s okay, man,” Barr says softly. “I’ve got you. You looked out for Hinde; I’m gonna look out for you.”

Sherlock nods unsteadily. Barr lifts his chin a little more and brings the lusciously full flesh of his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock moans into his mouth, and clutches at the hard narrow angles of Barr’s hipbones where they emerge from the upper edge of his underwear. Barr’s brown hands skim over Sherlock’s pale skin and his fingers wrap around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock wrenches his mouth from Barr’s, gasps his breath in loudly and groans it out again. His spine rounds, his shoulders curl, and his head drops forwards as he grimaces helplessly.

“Oh God, I need - ” he whines.

“Oh fuck,” Henn says plaintively.

“It’s okay,” Barr says, taking hold of Sherlock’s arms, “you’re okay. Come on, sit down.”

He turns, guiding Sherlock back and down to sit on the chair. Barr kneels in front of him, takes up the tube of lubricant, and dispenses a large blob into his left palm. Sherlock shivers as he watches Barr slick the fingers of both hands thickly.

“You really close?” Barr asks, as if the flushed rod of Sherlock’s cock and the string of precum spun from his slit to his belly isn’t indication enough.

Sherlock nods, his breath washing loudly in and out of his open mouth.

“Okay,” Barr says, nudging the back of one hand on the underside of Sherlock’s thigh, “shift out a bit.”

Sherlock hitches his behind forwards off the front edge of the chair seat, gripping the seat’s sides to steady himself.

“This leg up here,” Barr says, hooking his forearm behind Sherlock’s left knee and drawing his shin up until his calf is resting on the broad crest of Barr’s right shoulder.

Sherlock groans, the spreading apart of his buttocks enough to send a shock of pleasure through him. Barr closes one hand around Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s breathing shatters into half-voiced gasps. Barr tugs lightly with that hand while he snugs the fingertips of his other into the cleft of Sherlock’s behind; Sherlock throws his head back, his face contorted in agonized arousal.

“Oh – fuck – God – Jesus,” he growls.

Barr pushes his first and middle fingers into the blossoming ring of Sherlock’s anus and jiggles them from side to side in concert with the quick tug of his other hand on Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock arches.

“Oh God God yes I’m coming,” he says, “oh God I’m coming.”

His head snaps forwards and his thighs shudder as he spreads them past the point of pain. The slit of his cock dilates and his semen spurts out, splattering over his own chest and belly and then falling more softly over Barr’s fingers.

“Fuck Jesus fuck God thank you,” Sherlock gasps, shaking with relief.

Henn makes a breathy, sharp little sound. Blackwood lifts his head high, swallowing deeply enough to flex the tendons of his throat where they arc down to his collarbones. Sherlock shivers through the aftermath of his orgasm while Barr strokes one hand down Sherlock’s thigh, leaving trails of semen on his skin. His fingers are still curled gently inside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s leg slips down from Barr’s shoulder and his bare foot rests on the wooden floor again.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock says, cranking his head up and meeting Barr’s glittering gaze.

“Ready?” Barr asks.

Sherlock grimaces but nods, taking a deep breath and blowing it out deliberately. Barr dips his head and kisses a soft trail up the front of Sherlock’s thigh and onto his hipbone. Sherlock’s breathing steadies and he lets his eyes fall closed. Barr kisses slowly up Sherlock’s ribcage and drags his lips gently over one nipple. Sherlock shifts a little and tugs his lips between his teeth. Barr mouths lightly at Sherlock’s nipple and moves his fingers slowly inside Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock hisses. Barr glances up at him, stilling his hand between Sherlock’s buttocks.

“It’s – too much now,” Sherlock says, his gaze skittering away from Barr’s. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Barr says without hesitation. “Just stay with me.”

He reaches up with his free hand to clasp the nape of Sherlock’s neck, draws him down, and stretches up to kiss him on the mouth. As soon as their lips meet, Barr starts to slide his fingers slowly in and out of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock cries out softly, the sound further muffled against Barr’s mouth. Barr’s hand slips from Sherlock’s neck and strokes soothingly down the corded muscles of Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock pulls back from Barr’s mouth, his lips drawing back from his teeth, and presses his forehead to Barr’s.

“It’s – it’s - ” he says breathlessly.

“Am I hurting you?” Barr murmurs.

Sherlock rolls his forehead from side to side against Barr’s.

“No it’s just – oh God – so much,” Sherlock pants.

“You’re okay,” Barr says, “just stay with me.”

Sherlock nods messily and lets his head fall up and back, his throat drawing taut.

Barr bends his head and brings his lips to Sherlock’s nipple again. Sherlock shifts, arches into the contact, then arches harder as Barr pushes his fingers deeper.

“Oh God,” Sherlock groans. “Oh my God.”

Henn moves to stand next to McMath, murmuring into his ear as he strokes both hands down Henn’s arms. McMath glances over at Blackwood, who’s watching with dark, devouring eyes the slow tense and yield of Sherlock’s body between Barr’s mouth and hand.

Barr sinks back on his heels until he’s low enough to scoop the soft weight of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. Sherlock jolts sharply, and then jolts again at the subsequent shift of pressure inside his anus. Blackwood winces and looks over at McMath. McMath lifts his eyebrows questioningly; Blackwood nods. McMath steps away from Henn and goes down on his knees at Sherlock’s side.

“Are you going talk to me about fucking women?” Sherlock says, his smile tinged with desperation.

“No, I’m going to talk to you about fucking Blackwood,” McMath smiles, leaning closer. “You’re going to make it past Barr, and past me, and then you’re going to fucking plow his arse until he taps out.”

Sherlock exhales sharply, a not quite sounded laugh.

“Come on,” McMath says, his earth-gray eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face. “Stay with us.”

Sherlock’s breathing turns tidal and the tension drains from his body. He rolls his head slowly from side to side and moans low in his throat.

“Yeah,” McMath says, brushing his lips over the curl of Sherlock’s ear and smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s chest, “just like that.”

Sherlock lifts his right foot off the ground; his bare heel slips blindly against the edge of the chair’s seat but he’s slouched too far forwards for that to offer a foothold. He wraps his forearm around his bent knee and gathers it into his chest. He blows his breath out gently as he endures the slow, soft torture of Barr’s fingers and mouth.

McMath brings his hand up again to cup Sherlock’s chin and turn Sherlock’s mouth to meet his own. Sherlock winds an arm around McMath’s shoulders. His chest opens, lifts, his breathing turning deeper and more even as he relaxes between the two men’s mouths. His hand slips from his knee; his leg unfolds, finds Barr’s shoulder and hooks over it. Barr straightens his spine a bit so that he’s taking more of Sherlock’s weight; Sherlock slouches even farther down, trusting his balance to Barr completely. McMath splays his fingers over Sherlock’s stomach and drags slowly across the streaks of semen on his skin. Sherlock pushes up into the touch and the sounds he makes, though muffled by McMath’s mouth, are deeper and surer than before. Barr lets Sherlock’s cock slip from his mouth and lifts his head, using his free hand to tug at the slightly thickening shaft of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock twists away from McMath’s kiss, breathless, eyelids flickering heavily.

“Fuck,” he rumbles. “Fuck, that’s gorgeous … ”

Barr’s fingers are moving slowly in and out of Sherlock’s anus, twisting lazily on the way in, curling and tugging a little on the way out. Barr turns his head and mouths the firm, sparse curve of Sherlock’s inner thigh. Sherlock flexes, reaches down to splay a hand over Barr’s tightly cropped hair. The shifts of Sherlock’s body begin to piece together into a coherent pace, if not a rhythm. McMath trails his fingertips up over Sherlock’s nipple, staring down at Sherlock’s flushed face with hungry intent. Sherlock tugs his lower lip between his teeth, the already reddened skin darkening even more. McMath pinches the peak of Sherlock’s nipple firmly enough to extract a soft gasp from him.

“Oh - good,” Sherlock sighs. “So good.”

“Fucking hell,” McMath says, glancing at Barr. “How long do you think we can keep him like this?”

Barr doesn’t answer, beyond a curling smile.

“Barr, don’t you want … ” Sherlock says blurrily, his whole body flexing as he pushes into the slow, deep penetration of Barr’s fingers.

“Oh, I want,” Barr grins, “but this is just too fucking perfect to mess with.”

Sherlock shudders his breath out, and his eyes fall closed as he gives himself up to the sensations tiding through him. McMath straightens up, takes his hand off Sherlock’s chest abruptly enough that Sherlock’s eyes flick open in surprise.

“Thirty minutes, right?” McMath says to Blackwood. “What can I not do?”

“Use him up before I get there,” Blackwood says.

McMath jerks his chin in acknowledgment and looks down at Sherlock.

“Do you want - ” he begins.

“Yes,” Sherlock says sharply.

“Move up,” McMath says to Barr, nudging him on the shoulder.

Barr extracts his fingers from Sherlock’s body, shrugs Sherlock’s leg off his shoulder, and stands up. He heels his boots off, sheds his socks, and then strips his combat pants and underwear off. Sherlock smiles appreciatively, his hips twisting slyly, as the dark weight of Barr’s cock sways free from his clothing and then the thickly muscles curves of his thighs and calves are exposed.

Barr steps out of his clothes and straddles Sherlock’s hips on the chair, standing with his legs spread wide and one hand braced for balance on the top edge of the chair’s backrest behind Sherlock’s shoulder. Leaning into that support pushes the curve of his behind out; Sherlock clasps one buttock and squeezes. Barr growls throatily. Sherlock nuzzles into the suede brown skin of Barr’s belly, and it’s just a dip of his face to bring his lips to the dark rose brown head of Barr’s cock.

“Fucking – hell,” Henn whines, and it’s not at all clear if he’s responding to the sight of Barr’s cock sliding smoothly into the swollen, flushed circle of Sherlock’s lips, or Cullen’s increasingly bold exploration of his ears and neck.

McMath is on his knees between Sherlock’s splayed thighs, slicking his hands with the quick attention of a man eager to get to work. He pulls one fist up along Sherlock’s cock, and slips the fingertips of his other hand upwards along the already slick and sweaty valley between his buttocks. He flexes three fingers together and nudges their tips against the soft, yielding circle of Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock’s cheeks puff around the shaft of Barr’s cock and he pushes forwards until his nose is pressed into the flat plane of Barr’s lower belly.

“Fuck, he wants that,” Barr grunts heavily.

McMath pushes his fingers slowly inwards, his other hand pressed to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh to dampen the shake and strain of the muscle there. Sherlock clasps both hands to the backs of Barr’s thighs, shaping the forward and back of his hips. McMath looks down, focusing his attention on the slow twist of his wrist as he works his fingers in Sherlock’s body, and the slow circle of his thumb against the underside of Sherlock’s glans. Barr rocks his hips more quickly, his cock slipping wetly in the circle of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, his eyelashes quivering against the flushed skin of his cheekbones.

“Fuck. Jesus fuck,” Barr pants.

He’s thrusting his hips now, gaining confidence in Sherlock’s pleasure-drugged pliability and losing control as his orgasm starts to coalesce. Sherlock’s sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks and pushing forwards to meet Barr’s thrusts, nuzzling hard against his belly and letting his cock plumb throat deep. Barr’s knuckles turn white on the backrest of the chair and his thighs start to shake.

“Oh fucking Jesus,” he says loudly. “Here it comes, man.”

Sherlock huffs a smothered sound of encouragement and the vibration is enough to make Barr shudder. Sherlock grips Barr at the waist and pulls him in even tighter.

“Oh Jesus,” Barr says, “yeah – here – _oh yeah_.”

Sherlock’s shoulders hitch in an aborted cough and his nostrils flare, but he keeps pushing his face into Barr’s belly, his throat working spasmodically. A pale bead of semen wells from the corner of his mouth and runs down onto his chin as Barr quivers under his hands.

“Christ, fucking Jesus Christ,” Barr gasps. “That seriously fucking hurt I came so hard.”

He reels back, the thick dark weight of his cock sliding glossily from Sherlock’s reddened lips. Sherlock’s panting hard, his eyes blurrily unfocused as he wipes the back of his hand across his open mouth. Barr swings one leg back and above McMath’s head to unstraddle from over Sherlock. He staggers, then gathers his balance again. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He opens his eyes again and glares down at McMath.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock growls.

McMath nods, sliding his fingers free from Sherlock’s body.

“Get off the chair,” he says. “Get over the table.”


	6. William McMath

Sherlock gets up from the chair and McMath unfolds from his knees onto his feet.

He’s an inch or two shorter than Sherlock, with a tight, dense musculature that looks deceptively slender when fully clothed. His reddish blond hair is buzzed to plush velvet all over his scalp. His eyebrows and eyelashes are light brown, though they – like his gray-brown eyes - look darker against his skin, which stubbornly refuses to tan to anything beyond a creamy rose-gold. His features are strong but rather narrow and raw-edged, with an unfinished quality that time may yet turn to something quite striking.

Sherlock moves in close and brushes his hand over the thin tee shirt covering McMath’s chest. McMath dips his head and bundles the tee shirt off, revealing creamy skin with a scattering of golden freckles on each shoulder and a light fuzz of red-gold hair on his breastbone. He has a band of delicately tattooed feathers encircling the top of each biceps, and feather-tips curve forwards from his back around the base of his neck, over his shoulders, and along his ribs.

Sherlock leans in, slips a hand around the nape of McMath’s neck, and brings their mouths together. McMath tilts his head pliantly, letting Sherlock lean into the kiss with a deliberate drag of teeth and stab of tongue. Sherlock’s hand slides down McMath’s back, over the densely detailed wings tattooed from his nape to his waist, and then forwards over the constellation of stars that wrap around his right hip. Sherlock brings both hands to the fly of McMath’s camouflage pants and tugs the buttons open. He takes his mouth from McMath’s, drags wet kisses down his neck, and then sinks his teeth gently into the pale tender skin at the angle of neck and shoulder.

McMath exhales heavily, his hands clutching at Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock pulls out of McMath’s grip and sinks to his knees. McMath tips his head back and his mouth falls open.

“Oh, I fucking love this part,” Henn says.

McMath rolls his head to the side and smiles at him open-mouthed. Cullen is draped across Henn’s lap and Henn’s got one hand wrist-deep in the front of Cullen’s camouflage pants.

Sherlock parts the fronts of McMath’s pants. McMath’s cock is already rigid, pushing proud under his underwear with the tip poking imperiously out from the upper edge. Sherlock draws McMath’s pants down onto the long hard crests of his thighs and then peels his underwear down. McMath’s cock springs free, arching up from his groin and curving extravagantly towards his belly. Sherlock grins in anticipation. McMath takes hold of his cock with one hand and pulls his foreskin back from the tapered point of his glans, while he curves his other hand around the back of Sherlock’s head. He sways his hips forwards and draws Sherlock in. Sherlock opens his mouth but McMath doesn’t guide his cock straight in, instead he drags his glans around the circle of Sherlock’s lips, smearing a gloss of precum over them. Sherlock’s nostrils flare and his own cock pulses upwards, the shaft beginning to thicken and firm in earnest.

McMath sways forwards again and this time he slips his cock into Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock brings his hands up to rest lightly on the outsides of McMath’s thighs. McMath starts to rock his hips a little, sliding himself a few inches in and out of Sherlock’s encircling lips. Sherlock hollows his cheeks, sucking softly, and hums encouragingly. McMath groans, flexes his fingers around Sherlock’s skull, and rocks his hips a little harder. For a minute or two there’s silence except for Sherlock’s throaty sounds of approval and the soft clink of McMath’s dogtags sliding on their chain as he rocks forwards and back.

“Okay, stop,” McMath says.

His hips stutter to a halt. Sherlock keeps moving his mouth for a few more strokes but then he draws back slowly. McMath’s cock slips from between his lips, glossy and darkly flushed. McMath grasps Sherlock’s forearm and hauls him onto his feet again. Sherlock comes at him open mouthed and heavy eyed, but McMath pushes him off again.

“Table,” he insists.

Sherlock pulls away, turns, and crosses to the table. Blackwood is still sitting on the nearest side of it, with his feet propped on a chair. He kicks the chair aside as Sherlock approaches.

“I’ll get out of your way,” he grins.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sherlock says, stepping between Blackwood’s splayed knees.

Blackwood’s eyes widen, but his broad hands are already on Sherlock’s waist pulling him closer. Sherlock leans in, brings his swollen lips to the precise angles of Blackwood’s mouth, and slides his hands over the great expanse of taut cotton covering Blackwood’s chest and shoulders.

“It’s not my turn yet,” Blackwood murmurs, knocking Sherlock’s hands away. “Turn around.”

Sherlock’s breathing hard; his face and chest are flushed and damp, and his cock is slanting out from between his thighs. He turns unsteadily to face McMath again. McMath slips the side of his hand between Sherlock’s thighs and slides it back between his buttocks. Sherlock’s mouth smears open on a soft groan.

“Up,” McMath says, winding an arm around Sherlock’s waist and lifting him with enough strength that Sherlock’s hand on the table is for balance alone.

Blackwood shifts back, the table creaking heavily as he gathers his feet in so that he’s sitting cross-legged. McMath deposits Sherlock on the table’s edge.

“Lie back,” McMath says. “Let me fuck you.”

Sherlock tips back into Blackwood’s lap, his shoulders and head resting on Blackwood’s chest. Blackwood dips his head, brings his mouth to the taut skin behind Sherlock’s right ear, and Sherlock groans softly. McMath picks the tube of lubricant up, flicks the cap open, and squeezes a heavy stripe of gel across his hand. He closes the tube, tosses it onto the seat of the nearby chair, and wipes his hand over his cock, smoothing gel thickly over himself.

He scoops the crook of his elbow behind Sherlock’s left knee and lifts it. Sherlock draws his other knee out and up a little to open himself more. McMath leans in, using his hand to guide the head of his cock up and down along the gleaming cleft of Sherlock’s behind. He sets himself against the wet, yielding circle of Sherlock’s anus, takes his hand away, and pushes in with one long smooth stroke. Sherlock’s spine arches; he drives his head back against Blackwood’s breastbone and cries out in utter exaltation.

“Oh, Christ. _Oh. Christ_.”

“Fucking wicked, isn’t it?” Henn crows. “You could snake a fucking drain with it.”

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock says again, his eyes widening as McMath pulls back slowly and then shoves forwards. “Oh fucking _Christ_.”

Blackwood laughs breathily against Sherlock’s ear. A fine quiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. He lifts one hand to his own throat and strokes slowly downwards over his chest and belly. His body arches into each quick inward thrust of McMath’s cock and then falls back helplessly on each slow outward slide. Sherlock strokes his hand lazily over his own body, fingers trailing lightly on the drying smears of semen on his skin. Blackwood reaches down, his broad hands spreading over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock shudders his breath out.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like this,” Blackwood says, his eyes flicking up from Sherlock’s groin to the flushed curl of his ear. “Do y’know that?”

Sherlock’s cock is fully hard now, lying in a stiff straight rod along his belly. It bobs up eagerly as Blackwood fists both hands and strums his knuckles across the tight pink points of Sherlock’s nipples. McMath pauses and shrugs Sherlock’s leg from the crook of his arm.

“Just let them hang,” he says when Sherlock tries to draw his knees up.

Sherlock huffs his breath out and lets the weight of his legs flex down from his hips, his bare feet hanging an inch or two off the floor. His body lengthens under the strain, his spine arching and his belly curving up as his hips tilt down.

“Oh _Christ_ ,” he groans, as he parses the change in angle.

McMath grips Sherlock by the hips and starts to move again. Sherlock’s mouth gapes, his breath coming out in a high thin whine.

“Oh Christ – oh – oh,” he gasps.

McMath grins open-mouthed at him and then at Blackwood.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Sherlock says, rolling his head from side to side on Blackwood’s chest. “Oh fuck – oh - ”

His glans is swollen smooth, the skin flushed deep red and the slit oozing a thick strand of clear fluid onto his belly, and his balls are starting to draw up against his groin. He strains his thighs apart, his toes curling tightly.

“Oh, Christ, I think I can come just from this,” Sherlock growls.

“Whoa, no,” McMath says, jerking his hips back and wrapping his thumb and forefinger around the root of Sherlock’s cock tightly.

Sherlock’s head comes up off Blackwood’s chest and he roars in frustration.

“Ah – fuck – God, _fuck_ ,” he pants.

“Don’t. Come,” McMath says, squeezing the base of Sherlock’s cock for emphasis. “You want to have Blackwood try and fuck you when you’ve just come?”

Sherlock grimaces and then growls in annoyance.

“I’m pulling out,” McMath says grimly.

He draws his hips back smoothly, but Sherlock writhes as his cock pulls free.

“Get up,” McMath says.

Sherlock spills from the edge of the table, his limbs barely capable of supporting him. He darts his face at McMath’s and for a brief moment their mouths slide messily against each other. McMath pulls away, picks the tube of lubricant off the chair and throws it aside, then kicks the chair into position with its back to the table.

“Kneel,” McMath says, his hand on Sherlock’s arm already shaping the necessary motion. “Face away from me and kneel.”

Sherlock turns and sets his knees on the chair’s seat. He puts a hand on Blackwood’s thigh and draws him nearer.

“Come here.”

Blackwood shifts forwards again, spreading his thighs so that his knees are on either side of Sherlock’s torso and his shins and feet hanging down on either side of the chair. Sherlock catches the front of Blackwood’s tee shirt and pushes it up, uncovering heavy rolls of muscle under pale skin scattered with small deep brown freckles. Sherlock presses haphazard kisses to Blackwood’s chest and belly, sinking down and splaying his elbows and forearms on Blackwood’s thighs.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Blackwood says as Sherlock grips the thick bulge of his erection through his camouflage pants.

Sherlock starts to pluck Blackwood’s fly buttons open.

“Isn’t there something you need to ask me?” Sherlock goads.

“Do – do you want to keep going?” Blackwood asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock says, jerking the two sides of Blackwood’s pants apart.

“Hinde,” Blackwood says, throwing his chronometer to him. “Thirty-five minutes.”

“What are we allowed do to each other?” Sherlock asks.

“Anything we fucking like,” Blackwood says as Sherlock draws his cock out of his underwear.

Sherlock opens his mouth and licks deliberately around the taut edge of Blackwood’s foreskin.

“Oh, yeah,” Blackwood groans.

McMath slides one hand up the boney crests of Sherlock’s spine, while with the other hand he guides his cock under the curve of Sherlock’s behind and up against his anus. Sherlock bends lower, his mouth sliding over the top of Blackwood’s cock.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Blackwood says, his face contorting with hard-edged pleasure.

McMath hooks his hips upwards and his cock slides in. Sherlock gives a muffled cry around Blackwood’s cock and Blackwood growls loudly. McMath grapples for purchase at Sherlock’s hips and then his waist and finally his shoulders, but his skin is slick with sweat now. Blackwood reaches out with both hands and McMath grabs them, their fingers biting together into fists. Their biceps flex as they pull against each other, and the strain drives McMath’s cock deeper into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock pushes his face down into Blackwood’s groin, his breath bellowing from his nostrils as Blackwood’s cock plumbs the back of his throat.

“Oh, fucking God,” Blackwood says, “fucking God.”

McMath shakes his head sharply, throwing sweat off his eyebrows and upper lip, and jerks his hips faster. There’s the steady slap of flesh on flesh, the sharp ring of McMath’s dogtags against his chest, and the uneven gasps of all three men.

“Jesus on a fucking dildo,” Henn says very clearly.

McMath turns his head sharply to glance at him and then jerks his head away again.

“Jesus, Holmes, Jesus,” he says.

“Oh - _bloody hell_ ,” Blackwood bellows, his bare heels kicking back reflexively and his hips jerking up from the table.

Sherlock’s shoulders lurch. His cheeks billow and semen spills from where his lips are stretched around Blackwood’s shaft. He tilts his hips and rounds his spine, tightening down on McMath’s cock. McMath’s fingers spasm around Blackwood’s and his thrusts turn jagged and his rhythm disintegrates into single stabs and shudders of his hips. Sherlock pulls back from Blackwood, letting the length of his cock fall from his mouth. He tongues around his own lips and wipes his hand across his chin. He bends again, licking at the semen coating Blackwood’s shaft and glans. Blackwood stares at him, heavy eyed.

“Mac, your time’s up,” Hinde says.

McMath draws back. His cock slips free from Sherlock’s body, pulling a trail of semen that falls on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock swipes his palm over his mouth and chin again and lifts his head to look at Blackwood.


	7. George Blackwood

Blackwood is breathing hard; there’s a flush of heat across his chest and a gleam of sweat on his temples, but his eyes are still hard and vivid. Sherlock straightens up, unrounding his shoulders and spine, and slowly unfolds from his knees and off the chair. Each breath shudders through him from bowed head and slumped shoulders to his loosely hanging hands. Blackwood kicks the chair aside and slides off the edge of the table. He catches Sherlock at the waist with one broad hand and pulls him in; Sherlock yields, clutching two handfuls of tee shirt cotton and trusting most of his weight to Blackwood’s arm winding around him.

Blackwood is a couple of inches shorter than Sherlock, but his frame is carrying a clean sixty pounds more, all of it thoroughly tempered muscle. His brown hair is cropped short, though there’s enough irrepressible wave to roughen the surface. His eyes are a pale, nondescript brown densely speckled with motes of vivid amber. There’s a unexpected delicacy to his features – the sharp arch of his eyebrows, the fine line of his nose, and the almost bowless curve of his top lip. He’s tanned deep gold across the nape of his neck and on his forearms; elsewhere his skin is creamy pale, contrasting starkly with the tattooed black bands curling from halfway up his left forearm, over his biceps, and up under the hem of his tee shirt sleeve.

“Time, Corporal Hinde?” he says crisply, though his gaze is dark as it flicks from Sherlock’s eyes to his swollen, reddened mouth.

“Twenty-two minutes,” Hinde says immediately.

“Maybe you should have ignored McMath,” Blackwood says to Sherlock. “If you’d come, you could have let me do the heavy lifting.”

Sherlock lifts his eyes to meet Blackwood’s.

“John already knows I can _take_ it,” Sherlock says, his voice broken but his gaze very steady. “That’s not the object of this exercise – and it’s not what you want, is it?”

Blackwood’s gaze narrows.

“You have a problem, Holmes,” he says. “You’ve got twenty-two minutes to impress the hell out of me and you can barely stand up on your own.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists softly.

“I’m not _on my own_ ,” he murmurs.

Blackwood’s smile flashes in his eyes and then pulls at one corner of his mouth.

“There you go,” he says. “Now you get it.”

Sherlock releases one fistful of tee shirt to slide his hand up the extravagantly muscled curves of Blackwood’s side and chest, and then down his belly to stroke lightly over the slack weight of his cock hanging out of the open front of his camouflage pants. Sherlock’s own cock has softened somewhat, but it lifts slightly between his thighs as he touches Blackwood’s shaft.

“Henn,” Sherlock says, his gaze moving from Blackwood’s eyes to his mouth.

Henn shoves Cullen off and scrambles up from the couch.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes darting between Blackwood and Sherlock.

“Strip him,” Sherlock says, stepping back.

Henn swarms up against Blackwood, thrusts both hands up inside his tee shirt and pushes it up off his chest. Blackwood dips his head obligingly; Henn pulls the tee shirt off him and throws it across the room to Cullen. Henn skims his palm up Blackwood’s left arm, following the thick black coils of his tattoo where they wind around the broad curve of his shoulder and spread across the thick slope of his pectoral, then leans in and covers Blackwood’s nipple with his open mouth. Blackwood hisses his breath in and clasps one hand over the nape of Henn’s neck.

“Are you taking liberties, pup?” he growls.

“Always,” Henn smirks, lifting his head and dragging his fingernails down the thick braids of muscle covering Blackwood’s ribs.

He hooks his thumbs inside the waist of Blackwood’s pants, pushing them and his underwear down off the full rounds of his buttocks. Blackwood boosts himself back up onto the edge of the table; Henn sinks down onto his knees, running both hands down Blackwood’s thighs and shins as he goes. He tugs Blackwood’s laces open and pulls his boots off, throwing them under the table. He lifts each pants leg a bit, pulls Blackwood’s socks off, and throws them under the table too. Then he stands up again and tugs Blackwood’s pants down the carved crests of his thighs; the weight of the canvas drops down his shins and falls to the floor. Henn kicks the pants aside and steps back. Blackwood slides off the edge of the table onto his feet again.

“Bloody hell,” Barr says, with a breathy gust that might be laughter.

Blackwood’s body is solidly sculpted curves and deeply cut hollows, tight cabled tendons and fine snaking veins. His body hair is dark but quite sparse; his cock is still deeply flushed and slightly glossy around the foreskin with the wetness of Sherlock’s mouth. He steps away from the table and gestures at the men sprawling on and around the couch.

“Off,” he says.

There’s a scramble to vacate the couch. Barr sits down on the chair next to the table, and Hinde crouches down next to him. Garrett sits up on the edge of the table; Cullen leans back between his knees, and Garrett lays his forearms across the back of his shoulders.

Blackwood drops onto the couch, slouches down so that his behind is on the very edge of the seat, and spreads his thighs. Henn throws himself onto the couch, too. He turns his back on the others and faces Blackwood, sitting on one hip next to him. He leans across Blackwood, winding one arm around Blackwood’s neck and bringing their faces close together. Blackwood catches Henn by the nape of the neck and pulls him in so that their mouths meet.

McMath picks up one of the rather lumpy but solidly padded floor cushions from the pile in the corner and drops it on the floor between Blackwood’s feet. Sherlock moves in front of it and kneels down gingerly. McMath stoops, picks up the discarded tube of lubricant, and puts it into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock flips the cap open and squeezes gel out onto his fingers, while McMath sets his feet on either side of Sherlock’s calves. McMath sinks down, his knees on either side of and slightly behind Sherlock’s, kneeling so close that his belly and hips are pressing against Sherlock’s back and buttocks. Sherlock feels the slight nudge of McMath’s cock – still soft, but growing weighty and springy again – against the back of his thigh.

“Don’t worry,” McMath murmurs, his nose and mouth nuzzling below the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, “I’m strictly support.”

He reaches round and takes the tube from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock leans forwards and McMath leans back, opening a space between them. Blackwood lifts one foot from the floor and drapes his leg over the armrest of the couch, opening the cleft of his behind and exposing the soft ring of his anus. Sherlock wipes his fingers down over the opening. Blackwood stirs his hips restlessly and his hand tightens on the nape of Henn’s neck. McMath stripes gel across his palm, recaps the tube, and tosses it onto the far end of the couch.

He leans forwards again, pressing himself against Sherlock. He grips Sherlock at the angle of neck and shoulder with one hand; with the other hand, he reaches over Sherlock’s hip and down to his groin. He strokes his gel-coated palm and fingers down the length of Sherlock’s cock, thumbs the slit of his glans, and then pulls his grip slowly back up the shaft again. Sherlock groans; his head tips up and falls back onto McMath’s shoulder. McMath’s fist slides down again, his grip tightening. Sherlock starts to roll his hips, sliding himself forwards through McMath’s fist; the head of his cock brushes between Blackwood’s buttocks and smears lightly over his anus. Henn breaks from Blackwood’s mouth and bites a kiss under the corner of his jaw. Blackwood slides a little lower on the couch, so that Sherlock’s glans is pushing more positively against his anus. McMath rolls his hipbones against Sherlock’s behind, rocking him forwards. Blackwood exhales heavily; his fingers soften around Henn’s nape, and his body yields.

Sherlock gasps. McMath’s fingers run up the length his cock towards its root, as the shaft sinks smoothly into Blackwood’s body.

“Oh – fucking hell,” Blackwood says, letting his head fall onto the back of the couch.

“All the way,” McMath murmurs at Sherlock’s ear, his hipbones pressing into Sherlock’s behind. “He can take it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. His breath breaks into sound, a hoarse cry of helpless pleasure as he’s pushed forwards and his cock is sheathed to the root in Blackwood’s body.

Henn slides down Blackwood’s chest and half out of his lap, pressing blurred kisses to his throat and collarbone, and then sucking on his nipple. Blackwood jolts heavily under him, and then writhes carefully around the shifting pressure of Sherlock’s cock in his anus. Sherlock lifts his head unsteadily from McMath’s shoulder as McMath takes him by the hips. McMath begins to rock, pushing Sherlock forwards a little with the pressure of his hips and then pulling him back with his hands.

Henn slides out of Blackwood’s lap entirely, stretching out along the couch on his belly and leaning on one elbow. He catches hold of Blackwood’s cock – thickened and firming now – and holds it upright. He brings his mouth down over it, his lips meeting the encircling grip of his fingers, and starts to pump up and down smoothly. McMath catches his rhythm instantly and rocks his hips in counterpoint; each time Henn’s mouth slides down towards the root of Blackwood’s cock, McMath shoves Sherlock forwards so that his cock drives deeply into Blackwood’s body.

“Oh _fucking_ hell,” Blackwood gasps as he’s pinned between Henn’s mouth and Sherlock’s cock and then spun out between them as Henn’s mouth draws back up to cover just his glans, and Sherlock’s cock draws back to tug at just the ring of his anus. At the combined plunge down and in, Blackwood throws his head back and groans loudly.

“Ten minutes,” Hinde says tightly.

“Don’t worry,” McMath growls, “he’ll lose his fucking mind in five.”

Sherlock just abandons himself to the support of McMath’s body behind him. McMath’s hands clutch at his hips and then his shoulders as he seeks his best control over Sherlock’s weight and balance. He shoves Sherlock forwards with his hips, yanks him back with his hands. Blackwood throws one hand up and back, grabbing the top of the couch back and squeezing until the bulge of his biceps shakes from the exertion. He grimaces, teeth bared and head rolling from side to side. The muscles of his thighs and belly begin to tremble.

“Fuck, oh – fucking _Christ_ ,” he groans.

Sherlock jerks his shoulders forwards out of McMath’s grip. He claps one hand to Blackwood’s lifted knee, pushing it farther up the armrest of the couch and pinning it there. He jerks his hips, driving in brutally deep. Henn clamps his forearm across Blackwood’s hips, trying to control his increasingly chaotic thrusts.

“Oh – Christ,” Blackwood cries.

His hips strain upwards, every muscle jumping into hard-edged prominence as his body arches between the edge of the couch seat and the top of the backrest. Sherlock grimaces, blinking sweat out of his eyes, his fingers digging into the thick muscled curves of Blackwood’s thighs as he stabs his hips forwards.

“Fuck him,” McMath snarls at Sherlock’s ear, his hands biting hard at Sherlock’s hip and the nape of his neck. “ _Fuck him_ and make him come.”

Sherlock cries out, a shapeless sound of desire and desperation.

“Oh _fucking_ Christ,” Blackwood roars.

His body jolts. Henn’s breath explodes from his nostrils, and then he jerks his face away, coughing and gasping and lifting his hand to catch the string of saliva and semen falling from his mouth. Blackwood is still shuddering and Sherlock thrusts ruthlessly into him. McMath shoves against him from behind, his cock pushing at Sherlock’s inner thigh. He clasps both hands over Sherlock’s chest and smears his thumbs over Sherlock’s nipples.

Sherlock lurches forwards, his breath smashing into a flurry of thin grunts and gasps and his hips jumping sharply as he comes. Blackwood throws his head back and growls in satisfaction.

“Oh Christ, oh fuck, oh Jesus,” Sherlock gasps, as his body begins to quiver. “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus … ”

He folds forwards onto Blackwood’s chest, his eyes closed and his mouth open as he struggles to fill his lungs. Blackwood unhooks his thigh from over the armrest of the couch and lowers his foot to the floor. The movement pulls Sherlock’s cock from his body; he quirks a slight smile and Sherlock whines weakly against him. Blackwood hauls one hand up and digs his fingers into the sweat-wet tangle of hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. McMath sleeks a palm down the damp skin of Sherlock’s back, a parting caress, and sits back on his heels. The rigid shaft of his cock curves up from between his thighs, the head brushing against his belly.

“Do you have a plan for that thing?” Henn asks, sprawling at the other end of the couch from Blackwood and Sherlock.

“You want it?” McMath grins.

“Oi, take it elsewhere,” Blackwood says. “We’ve had the run of this place for two and a half hours; other people want to use it, too.”

McMath unfolds up onto his feet. Cullen and Garrett are picking up various discarded articles of clothing and tossing them to their owners.

“Here,” Garrett says, throwing McMath’s camouflage pants at him. “Put that fucking thing away before someone loses an eye.”

Hinde drops Blackwood’s chronometer back into his hand.

“All right, Holmes,” Blackwood says, nudging Sherlock’s thigh with one bare heel as he straps his chronometer onto his wrist again. “Get up.”

“No,” Sherlock says blurrily against Blackwood’s chest.

“That wasn’t a request,” Blackwood says. “Soldier.”

Sherlock groans, plants both hands on the edge of the couch seat, and pushes off.

“Come on, man. I’ve got you,” Hinde says, stooping down to scoop a hand under Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock exerts himself enough to unbend his legs and help Hinde to pull him upright.

“God, there’s enough spunk on you to repopulate the shagging planet,” Hinde grimaces, looking down at the streaks on Sherlock’s belly and thighs.

Sherlock exhales a silent laugh and drapes his arm over Hinde’s shoulders, as Hinde wraps an arm around his waist. Barr comes over to them; he presses his fist gently to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock sways slightly and smiles at Barr with his swollen, reddened lips.

“Yeah,” McMath says, reaching over to touch Sherlock’s arm. “Welcome to the tribe.”

There’s a murmur of agreement and affirmation. Garrett slides a hand down Sherlock’s forearm and grips his wrist momentarily. Cullen, blushing and barely meeting Sherlock’s eyes, puts a hand to his shoulder. Henn waits until Cullen has moved aside, then steps in to run his fingers lightly down Sherlock’s breastbone.

“All right, break it up,” Blackwood says, hauling himself up from the couch. “Hinde, make him drink some water – and clean some of the spunk off him before Doc sees the state of him.”

Hinde nods and starts to turn around, but Sherlock doesn’t move with him. Blackwood lifts an eyebrow questioningly.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, his voice a thick, soft husk.

Blackwood smiles crookedly and shakes his head slightly.

“See if you feel the same tomorrow,” he says, “after pulling four hours point for Alpha fire-team.”

Sherlock grins.

“I will,” he says hoarsely.

“Yeah, I think you might, at that,” Blackwood smirks.


End file.
